


everybody party till the gasman comes

by the_eighth_sin



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: AU, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_eighth_sin/pseuds/the_eighth_sin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The band is local and one of Andrew’s favourites. The shirt from his first time seeing them is worn thin in places and he mostly wears it for bed now, decal on the front rubbing away. It makes him smile to think of that first time, stepping into the madness of hundreds of people there for the exact same reason he was. "</p><p>aka. Andrew Shaw, wannabe Frank Iero</p>
            </blockquote>





	everybody party till the gasman comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morphosyntactic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morphosyntactic/gifts).



> The working title for this was “Shawsy is a punk” and the original idea was entirely the fault of [ listedheart's ](https://twitter.com/listedheart/) response to me finding [ this picture ](http://s414.photobucket.com/user/blueytheredler/media/Shaw/tumblr_m3brdod8XE1ql46txo1_500_zpsb698b04d.png.html) of Shawsy in juniors with a skunk stripe exactly like the one he has in this fic.
> 
> Standard disclaimer applies: This is fiction. It's me imposing my thoughts and feelings on constructs based on real people and should not be viewed as anything other than fiction. Please do not share this with anyone portrayed in it and we'll get along just fine. Thank you!

Andrew is Andrew until he leaves the house. Once he crosses the threshold he’s Andrew Shaw, black sheep of the family, big attitude and bigger mouth. He tries okay, he does, mostly because he wants to be the person his family think he is, but a little bit to spite his Grandma who watches him when he visits like she expects him to steal her silver or something. He deals. He gets into fights (He loves the sound of it, the thump of flesh on flesh, muscle on muscle, bone on bone, the same way he loves hockey, wholeheartedly.) He mouths off and gets too many detentions to count, punches assholes who think that because he’s small they can push him around.

His favourite is nights like this though, when he can shake off the mantle of the Andrew he is at home and the Shawsy he is with the guys. He wrinkles his nose against the smell of peroxide and wonders whether his fading black eye looks tough, or just like a little kid who took down a guy 2 years older and 40 pounds heavier than him a couple of days ago. 

He washes the bleach out of his hair over the sink, familiar ritual of squinting his eyes against the fumes and hoping his hair doesn’t fall out like in all those shitty teen movies everyone watches. Andrew likes the classics, proper old school horror, blood and guts and high pitched screaming. He supposes that says something about him, but then everyone already knows he’s a fighter.

Grinning at his hair in the mirror, matted to his head but striped through with blonde at the top. His Mom thinks it makes him look like a skunk and gets pissed when he ruins her towels, but it makes him feel that little bit better, puts a spring in his step. She’s started leaving out all of their old rags for Andrew to use and that feels more like approval than anything else.

“DAD?” he yells down the stairs as he digs through the shoe cupboard for his boots, “Where are my keys?” There’s a muffled shout in response but Andrew has his head in the corner trying to work out whether the shining is coming from the tip of his boots or from his Mom’s and he can’t hear what’s said. His hair is dripping all over the back of his neck and he still hasn’t found his left boot or put on his shirt when he realises the time. He’s going to be late which sucks because he’ll have to spend the first few songs fighting his way to the front and to the pit. 

The band is local and one of Andrew’s favourites. The shirt from his first time seeing them is worn thin in places and he mostly wears it for bed now, decal on the front rubbing away. It makes him smile to think of that first time, stepping into the madness of hundreds of people there for the exact same reason he was. It’s still his favourite thing to do, throw himself into the crowd, shout along with the pounding music and get thrown around in the pit. He wonders what bruises he’ll wake up with tomorrow as he scrubs a towel over his head and tugs on a black tshirt that’s a little too tight around his shoulders to wear anywhere else.

His Mom is in the kitchen when he thunders downstairs and he presses a quick kiss to her cheek before attempting to dash off again. She stops him with a sharp ‘Andrew!’ and he turns around quickly, a frantic mantra of _shit I’m late I’m so fucking late_ echoing loudly in his head. She’s holding his keys in two fingers and he grins gratefully patting his back pocket to check his money and mobile are both there. “Be careful okay?” she asks and he nods quickly before turning and racing for the car. If he gets all green lights he might make it for the second support.

-

There’s a bouncer standing at the door when he bolts into the venue. He looks just like every other bouncer Andrew’s ever seen, bald head and big mustache, stocky and red faced from the cold. He had to park a bunch of streets away and run the rest of the way, car park already full and every metre of curb space taken for blocks. He nods at the guy as he hands over his ticket, itching to get inside, thrum of the bass already worming its way inside of him and he shifts a couple of times, trying to steady the urge to just _go_.

He finally gets the nod and he heads to the stairs immediately, music getting louder the closer he gets. He must be hearing the second support act, doesn’t recognise the voices or the lyrics and he’s way too late for it to be the first. He doesn’t look at the stage until he’s fought his way to the back of the foremost pit, a yawning mouth of restrained violence. He throws himself into the fray without thought, stops to help a girl who is obviously drunk to her feet, grins when she presses a sticky kiss to his face in thanks before pushing him into the circle of people helping throw them around.

The band is good. Loud like Andrew likes, angry sounding, and when he trips out of the pit and towards the bar he’s sweaty and aching and a vicious bruise is already yellowing on his upper arm. He throws back two cups of water before he stops panting, settling back to watch the support act wrap up their set.

The whole band is pretty hot if Andrew’s honest. The lead singer has this fucking /mouth and Andrew always did have a thing for guitarists and their big forearms and capable fingers. From what he can see of the drummer he’s not bad looking either, but its the bassist who steps forward towards the end of the last song who really catches Andrew’s eye. He must be at least college age and he’s staring down at his bass with single minded focus, rocking along with the beat. He’s got a pretty thick beard, big shoulders and solid thighs and the more Andrew stares at him, the clearer the image of the guy rubbing that scruff all over Andrew’s thighs while he sucks him off gets.

He forgets about the support pretty quickly when the band he came to see steps on stage, ripping into the first song with gusto. Andrew throws himself back into the fray and doesn’t think about the bearded bass player until he’s scrambling to the bathroom at the end of the set, water having gone straight through him and desperate to beat the crowd. When he comes back out there are clumps of people standing around the two support acts and Andrew swaggers over with false confidence, walking straight through the wall of people and stopping a few feet from the bassist.

He’s signing something for a girl in a hot pink mini skirt and Andrew takes care not to look too closely at hot girls when the guy he kind of wants to bang is standing in front of him.

“You guys were good.” he finally says, “I was in the pit for the first few songs and it was good.” The guy smiles and Andrew’s glad he’s already flushed from the exertion because he’s pretty sure he’d be blushing obviously otherwise.

“Nice hair. Want anything signed?” Andrew laughs but hands over his ticket anyway. It’s an excuse to stay close by and to ask, 

“What the fuck is that meant to say?”

“Brandon. It’s pretty bad huh?” Andrew has no clue why Brandon seems to want to keep talking to him, but he won’t deny it’s pretty awesome that he isn’t ignoring him.

“Maybe I should show you how it’s done eh?” He’s honestly joking, but then Brandon hands him the Sharpie in his hand and holds out his left arm. Andrew raises his eyebrow in question and a few straggling girls giggle when he leans over and grabs Brandon’s wrist. He’s got big muscled forearms like everyone who plays guitar, thick fingers but surprisingly dainty wrists considering he’s at least 6 feet tall. Coughing quietly, he scrawls ‘Andrew’ and his cell number, letting go straight afterwards and letting Brandon reclaim his arm.

He laughs when he sees the black ink, and something loosens in Andrew’s chest that he didn’t even realise had tightened in the first place.

“I should call you huh?” and Andrew grins, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Most of the rest of the room has cleared out, just a cleanup crew with litter pickers and plastic bags working their way towards them.

“I mean, that’s up to you. But it could be fun.” The little noise Brandon makes at that makes Andrew sure that he’s going to get a text or a call in the next few days. He leaves riding high on endorphins, knowing he’s going to be aching tomorrow and thinking about Brandon and how it’ll feel to get his hands all over him.

Andrew zones out a bit on the way to the car, sitting down and shifting his dick, which is on its way to fully hard from the sore muscles and the forming bruises and the filthy fantasies. He considers jerking off in the car for half a second, imagines pulling out his dick and watching anxiously out of the windows as he works himself before dismissing the idea. He’s only 20 minutes from home and he’s pretty sure that this street is close to his Grandma’s house. That thought carries him all the way home and into his bedroom where he finally strips down and forces all thoughts of his grandparents away with the feel of his hand on his dick and two fingers pressing around and into his ass.

-

Brandon calls him two days later and Andrew grins down the phone while they talk. He presses absentmindedly at the bruises on his chest and neck and tries to hold in the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. Hours pass and it’s long since dark out when Brandon starts whispering his secrets along the distance between them. 

“I collect strays you know? I have 4 cats now, 3 dogs and a tortoise. Shelly wasn’t really a stray but I could tell she was hurting. I saw you...” he pauses and takes a breath that’s audible over their quiet connection, “I saw you and I thought you looked like a stray too.” Andrew freezes and he chuckles nervously before replying,

“And what? You wanted to take me home?” Brandon sighs a quiet “Yes” between one breath and the next and Andrew thinks about how his first reaction to seeing Brandon was to wonder how that scruff would feel against his skin when they fucked.

“When I saw you on stage, I kept thinking about your beard, how it would feel on my ass when you ate me out.” Andrew’s voice sinks lower with every word until he’s growling quietly, arousal in every word, thickening quickly in the soft material of his sweatpants. “I wanted you to take me and fuck me hard enough to feel it for days.” Brandon lets out a moan that sounds like it’s been punched out of him and Andrew glances at his door to make sure it’s locked before he slips one hand into his pants and wraps a gentle fist around the base of his dick.

“Your stupid hair.” Brandon says, voice breathy. “I can’t wait to get my hands in it. You’ll suck me off right babe?” It’s Andrew’s turn to moan then, the thought of getting on his knees for Brandon, all that height and bulk above him enough of a jolt to force his hand to start working, rubbing across the head of his dick on every upstroke.

“Yeah,” he gasps, “I’ll get on my knees for you Brandon.” They’re both wrecked sounding and Andrew is holding the phone against his ear with a cocked shoulder, other hand scrambling desperately to pull the headboard away from the wall. His room is small and it gets jammed, squeaking against the windowsill unless he pulls it away. The only sound for a time is the wet breaths they’re both aiming down the phone and Andrew closes his eyes tightly, trying to loosen his death grip on the bed and failing miserably when Brandon whimpers out half of his name as his breathing picks up even more. “I can’t wait for you to fuck me. Get those big fingers in me, get me all worked up before you fuck me for real. Wanna... wanna beg for it.” He hiccups softly between words, so so close that it takes a second for Andrew to register the almost sub-vocal keening noise Brandon is making and the quiet “fuck fuckin’ coming” that comes right before orgasm rips through Andrew and leaves him trembling, breath held tightly in straining lungs, a shout trapped in his throat.

They come down silently, panting down the phone at each other and Andrew is filled so suddenly with the need to be in Brandon’s bed with him right now that he can’t help the little sob of surprise he lets out.

“You ‘kay?” Brandon asks, speech slurred slightly, softer vowels and Andrew sighs out a quiet ‘yeah’.

“Kind of wish I was there with you.” He answers, because orgasms make him honest and Brandon doesn’t laugh like Andrew was expecting him too.

“Me too babe, me too. Come to dinner with me tomorrow?” he replies and Andrew stutters out a 

“Yes yes, sure, fuck.”

“Okay. I’ll pick you up?” Andrew promises to text his address as soon as they’ve hung up and then they spend another five minutes talking even though they’ve nothing to talk about and Andrew’s breaking every other sentence in half with huge yawns. “Go to sleep.” Brandon finally tells him and Andrew settles down under the quilt and falls asleep with his phone clenched in one hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to the usual crowd, and especially to [ Beth ](https://twitter.com/krislesmang/) for the late night read-through!
> 
> Title from MCR's Vampire Money because GUH that album is phenomenal and also Shawsy/Frank Iero.


End file.
